


Just Pretend

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-21
Updated: 2008-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-14 13:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: If you can't be with the one you love….





	Just Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> If the concept of, er, long-distance love offends you, then you probably don't want to read this. 
> 
> The song that kept going through my mind when I was writing this is ["Just Pretend" by Eight Seconds](https://youtu.be/rKMpkhrui_U).
> 
> Disclaimer: _So_ not mine.

"Hello?" came the sleep-groggy voice.

"Bridget, it's Mark."

He heard the sheets shifting as she turned over in bed. "Hello, Mark."

"You knew it was me, didn't you?"

"I admit that I did," she said playfully. "No one else would dare call at one a.m. on a work night."

He sat down, figuratively hitting himself hard on the forehead. "Oh, love, I'm so sorry. I forget the time difference when I'm in America."

"It wouldn't be quite as bad if it were New York, but Los Angeles…"

"Eight hours. Yes, I know."

She giggled. "I'd ask you how your day went but it's not quite over yet."

"About to head to the hotel restaurant for some supper."

"I had pizza," she admitted. "Shaz thought me mad for bursting into tears at the sight of cheese and pepperoni."

"Poor darling," he said. "I'm glad your friends are keeping you company."

"Me too." She sighed. "I miss you, though."

"I miss you too."

"How much longer will you be?" she asked.

"A week at the latest."

She sighed again. He understood why. He'd already been gone for three.

"I'm sorry it's taking so long."

"It isn't your fault. You only thought you'd be there a few days, and I couldn't very well have taken so much time off work." He heard her shift again. "A girl just gets… _unspeakably_ lonely, you know?"

He knew. "I'll be back just in time for your birthday," he said brightly, trying to take her mind off of her sadness. "And maybe, just maybe, I'll have a lovely present for you."

"What I really want is you. Here. With me."

He tried to ignore the tone of her voice, that low, sultry timbre that resonated to the center of his very soul, because it only made him think of how much he wished the same. "I know, love. Soon enough."

"Why don't you…" she began, then said, "No, never mind."

"'Never mind' what?" He knew he was walking into a trap, but he had never been able to resist.

"Well, I was going to say… if you're there alone… why don't you… talk to me like you're here with me?"

_Good lord_ , he thought; _she's suggesting transcontinental phone sex_. "Bridget. That's absurd," he scoffed.

She did not answer right away, and when she did her voice had dropped down beyond sultry and right into erotic. "Is it absurd for me to tell you I'm lying here with absolutely nothing on but the tiniest pants I own?"

The image flashed up unbidden in his mind: her lying on the bed, blonde hair splayed upon the pillows, soft pale skin, and… "Which ones? The black ones?" he asked abruptly.

He could hear her stifle a chuckle before she spoke. "Yes, Mark. The black ones. And it's a tiny bit chilly in here, which keeps things a little… perky."

There was no question about it: she was evil. He could only think now of those lovely bosoms of hers, the petal pink tips raised skyward as she reclined amongst the linens, bathed in honey gold light from the nightstand lamp. His trousers suddenly became very uncomfortable and he shifted in his chair; three weeks _was_ a very long time.

"Tell me what you're wearing?" she asked innocently. He was not fooled by her tone.

"Well," he began, clearing his throat. "Dark blue trousers, light blue oxford—"

"What about your boxers?" she interrupted. "What colour boxers have you got on?"

He could hardly remember which underpants he'd dressed in that morning. "White, maybe?"

"Mark," she said. "It's difficult to get a mental picture if you're not exact. Pretend I'm there. Pretend I'm loosening your belt. Undoing your button. Pulling down your zip."

Of their own accord his free hand moved down to the waist of his trousers, even as he considered how ridiculous this whole thing was. Within moments he advised, "They're blue with white pinstripes."

"And what's beneath those?"

"I think you know," he said gruffly.

She laughed low in her throat. "Pretend I'm there," she said again. "Pretend I need to find out for myself. Close your eyes and listen to me."

In his mind's eye, he saw her lovely face, felt her fingers parting the front of his pants, felt her gingerly draw him out and as she did so she sighed, advising it was just as she thought. Her fingers encircled him then moved back and forth, and she asked him if it felt good. In response his breath caught in his throat; his hips twitched forward.

He sighed her name.

"Mark," she said, her voice slightly wavering, "I think these little black pants need to go. Take them off."

He imagined hooking his thumbs around the ribbon-thin elastic at her hips, raking his nails down over the bend of her leg, then tugging them rapidly down. He brushed his fingertips back up along her legs, up against her belly, before lowering to place a kiss then the tip of his tongue against her navel.

As the words streamed out of his mouth in a guttural hum, he could hear her breath go ragged.

"Keep going," she breathed into the phone, "and so will I."

As the pace and pressure of her fingers upon him increased, he moved farther down, his tongue darting out to taste and tease, his fingers probing and exploring, with a mounting rapidity and force. He imagined her back arching up beneath his ministrations as she alternately moaned and praised his name.

Suddenly it wasn't her hand on him at all; oh no, she explained, it was her lips, her tongue, circling and stroking. She asked again if he liked what she was doing.

"Oh yes," he breathed. He felt sweat beading on his forehead. "Bridget…" he began shakily.

"Tell me," she said, then resumed caressing him with her tongue.

He shuddered with the sensation. "I want to…" He broke off with a pained sound.

"Do it, Mark."

He knew then he needed to and suddenly, she was under him; he was driving into her with heavy grunts and she encouraged him on with squeals and sighs until at last she cried out, signaling her climax. Hearing her sounds of pleasure across the miles, he could only follow suit, and he threw his head back as he came, nearly dropping the phone to the floor.

He restored the phone to his ear to hear her panting unsteadily in time with his own uneven exhalations, spent many moments listening to nothing but their breathing.

"If I were there…" he said, thinking how much he wished he were holding her close to him, stroking her hair, feeling her chest rise and fall against him as her respiration returned to normal, feeling her fingers lazily drifting on his chest.

"I know," she said quietly. "This week can't go quickly enough."

He kissed the top of her head (if only in his thoughts) and said, "Sleep well, love."

He heard the low click of the lamp switch as she turned it off. "I will." Then she chuckled sleepily. "Enjoy your supper."

They said their goodbyes and Mark returned the phone to its cradle. As he gazed out across the room to the sun-baked sprawl of Los Angeles laid out at the feet of his hotel, he decided that room service would more than suffice for that evening.

_The end._


End file.
